After meeting on a bipartisan delegation of young political leaders to Taiwan in 2004, we became fast friends—even as we worked on opposite sides of campaigns to elect members to the House of Representatives. In a town that would soon be consumed by hyper-partisanship, our friendship felt notable, at least to us, a quiet countercurrent to what was already beginning to take shape in Washington.

In 2007, we traveled together again—this time to Chisinau, Moldova—to moderate a civil society conference for young political leaders from emerging democracies across Eastern Europe and Asia. Participants from nearly 20 former Soviet bloc countries, representing a wide range of political parties and perspectives, gathered—some at considerable personal risk—to learn how to advance democracy, build civic capacity, and promote free and fair elections back home in environments that often resisted both.

After three days of training sessions, breakout discussions, and long informal conversations that stretched well past the formal agenda, a small group of especially motivated participants convened to draft a joint youth declaration. We were asked to guide them through a half-day process to shape a document the full conference could support, refine, and ultimately carry home as a shared commitment. What unfolded over those hours—and into the conference’s final session—was remarkable. It remains, even now, one of the most meaningful civic moments either of us has had the privilege to help facilitate.

On the final day, the working group presented its draft declaration along with a set of proposed action steps. What we initially expected to be a routine vote quickly became something more substantial and far more instructive. Before the document could be adopted, participants insisted on establishing a process to offer amendments. They wanted deliberation. They wanted ownership. They wanted, in the most practical sense, democracy in action.

In real time, they began building exactly the civic capacity they had come to learn—drafting amendments, debating provisions line by line, and voting on changes through a process we improvised together as the room demanded it. After several hours of negotiation, compromise, and persistence, they reached an agreement. A final declaration emerged, stronger for the scrutiny it had endured and the voices it had incorporated. They returned home committed to launching civic education programs, fostering cross-border cooperation, organizing multi-party youth groups, and recruiting independent-minded candidates willing to challenge entrenched systems.

Today, we find ourselves wondering whether that same spirit of democratic engagement—so vivid and urgent abroad—is something we could rekindle here at home.

On July 4, the United States will mark the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence—a document written by imperfect people in an imperfect time, yet one that gave enduring voice to a revolutionary idea: that our rights derive not from government alone, but from our shared humanity and the consent of the governed. These rights are not partisan. They are not the property of one party or another. They are American. In many ways, they remain our most powerful export, even when we struggle to live up to them ourselves.

This anniversary offers a rare opportunity to reflect on that inheritance—not as a series of partisan milestones or competing narratives, but as a shared civic story. That story begins on July 2, when independence was first declared by vote, and continues through July 4, when the Declaration was formally adopted. It extends to September 3, the anniversary of the Treaty of Paris, which secured the independence first claimed seven years earlier. These are not red or blue dates. They are American ones—and they should be occasions for unity rather than division.

Imagine what it would look like if leaders at every level—governors, mayors, members of Congress, and even former presidents—jointly encouraged community-centered celebrations focused not on ideology, but on civic belonging: naturalization ceremonies that welcome new citizens, volunteer days that strengthen neighborhoods, historical commemorations that deepen understanding, and service projects defined not by party affiliation, but by country. We have done this before, at other moments of national reflection. There is no reason we cannot do it again.

Some will dismiss calls for unity as sentimental or unrealistic in an era defined by deep polarization and entrenched distrust. We would argue the opposite. Unity is not a luxury reserved for easier times; it is a necessity in difficult ones. When it exists, even imperfectly, it is a national strength that makes everything else possible.

The 250th anniversary presents an opportunity to rebuild three civic habits that have eroded over time but are not beyond repair.

First, shared historical literacy. We do not need to agree on every interpretation of our history, nor should we expect to, but we should share a basic understanding of its timeline, its milestones, and the principles that have shaped it.

Second, patriotism without uniformity. One of us sees patriotism as rooted in tradition and continuity. The other sees it as a forward-looking effort, a commitment to progress toward our ideals. These views are not in conflict. They are part of the same American story, one that has always contained both preservation and change.

Third, service as common ground. National service tied to the anniversary—supporting veterans, improving local infrastructure, tutoring students, beautifying communities, and addressing local needs—can remind us that working side by side changes how we see one another. It replaces abstraction with experience, and distance with proximity.

None of this will happen on its own. Today’s political incentives often reward division rather than cooperation. Social media platforms amplify outrage more effectively than nuance. Fundraising frequently depends on fear, urgency, and the portrayal of opponents as existential threats. We know this because, in different ways, we have helped build some of those systems. But incentives can change—if leaders, and citizens alike, decide that this moment should be different.

Unity has never meant complete agreement, nor should it. It has meant a shared commitment to continue the argument within the same constitutional family, to accept disagreement without abandoning the broader project. It has meant finding a way forward together, even when the path is contested.

Perhaps it is best captured in the words of Victor Glover upon returning to Earth: “Let’s invest in togetherness.”

Renewal, if it is to mean anything, starts at home. Let’s invest in togetherness.